


Between the Words

by Fen_Assan



Series: Together, Even When Apart [3]
Category: The Witcher 3 Blood and Wine dlc, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt - Fandom, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Explicit Chapter 4, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Multi, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: This is an accompanying fic to "Yours Truly". That main fic being epistolary doesn't allow me to incorporate some scenes well enough, so I'll collect them here. The short vignettes will show the scenes with characters and events mentioned in "Yours Truly", and will more or less correspond with the letters.    
This fic can be enjoyed on its own, but will definitely work better if you read "Yours Truly" as well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this because of the scenes that I was dying to write, but couldn't include into "Yours Truly" in any decent way, haha. Nearly each chapter of the letters will have an accompanying vignette here. I have a few ideas so far, but if you have another one that I won't have written in the first 4-5 chapters of this, do let me know what you'd like to see, and I'll try to write that as well! It just needs to have something to do with "Yours Truly" events. :)
> 
> I appreciate all feedback, so please let me know what you think. I hope you enjoy this. :)

Standing on top of the fortress hewn from the solid rock of the mountain open to and battered by all winds might not have been the best idea. But from the upper terraces of the mighty citadel she could see the whole archipelago. She looked far to the east - hundreds of leagues beyond Undvik and Hindarsfjall, straining her eyes, but in fact only pretending she could see that far, all the way beyond the massif of the Amell Mountains and into the lush fertile valley of Toussaint. She pretended, because she desperately wanted to see it now, because _he_ was there. And she wanted to see _him_. 

Yennefer’s chest rose and fell slowly with a deep sigh. She missed the Witcher. The gusts of wind and the biting air - and her unblinking staring, and nothing else - brought the prick of tears to her eyes. She wiped them with the back of her hand, careful to keep her perfect makeup intact, and pulled her black curls thrown about by the northerly wind away from her face - she really should have enchanted them to stay put. 

She placed her hands on the rough stone of the wall of the Kaer Trolde fortress, and looked down into the slate-blue sea. She could, in theory, simply pack a few things and take a portal to see him. Even right now. After all, it had been herself who had asked him, before the horror of the final battle against the Wild Hunt, to leave the world behind. To retire, together, to live in peace, away from politics and machinations, from demands and contracts. But an old acquaintance had asked for his help. _I don’t think I like that Duchess at all,_ she mumbled under her breath, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip. She sighed. It was stupid: she knew Geralt would remain faithful to her. Or so she believed. Hoped. 

She was faithful to him, had been for a long time now. And really, if they were to settle down together, spend every single day in each other’s company - would that not be bliss? - they had to trust each other. And so she chose to trust, as he had accepted the contract from the Duchess of Toussaint, and she herself had agreed to assist the Queen of Skellige. Yennefer smiled faintly: she truly was unable to refuse a young woman, the one she could in moments clearly see as just a girl really, a motherless girl. Someone like her Ciri had been once. Someone she could help. So she took Cerys under her wing, too. Although the Queen, of course, would never admit to their relationship being anything more than that of a sovereign and an adviser. No, wrong - she would definitely call Yennefer her friend, just like she called Geralt, and Ciri, friends. 

The thoughts of her dearest people caused a mixture of longing and happiness to squeeze at her heart. Yes, she would stay here, with Cerys, for a while more, until she was less needed, less necessary here. And then she would join her Witcher in the sunny Toussaint. Truth be told, Yennefer preferred the crispy freshness of the air in Skellige, but, whether she realised it herself or not, she would follow Geralt anywhere. Although she might never tell him that. She pulled a parchment out of her tight sleeve - she had resolved to wear slightly more sensible clothes in the local climate after all - and smiled as her eyes followed along the lines of the letter written by _his_ hand. No, she could not simply teleport herself to see him right now - she could not trust herself to return here: to leave the warmth of his body, the sweetest pressure of his weight on her, the smoothness of his skin between the ragged scar tissue, that scent of something wild that accompanied him. She let out a long shaky breath: she was no longer cold. 

The sorceress checked her own letter once again, rolled and tied the parchment, and, closing her eyes, breathed out a few words in the Elder Speech, her left hand waving a pattern in the air. She smiled and opened her eyes, looking up to the sky, as a high-pitched chant of a kestrel answered her call. She could see the bird soar high up, and waited patiently for him to slowly hover down, putting a single leather glove on. The kestrel alighted on her forearm, his claws biting into the thick leather of the glove. The bird turned his head to the woman, the large black eye blinking, and ruffled his brown feathers speckled with black spots. She brought the fingers of her right hand up cautiously, and gently stroked the spotted-cream plumage on the bird’s breast. She started fitting the parchment into the small ring on the kestrel’s leg when she heard the heavy oak door leading out onto the terraces slam shut.

“Here ye 're! I Been lookin for ye. You’ve got to help me! Me father’s drivin me insane! I’m his queen, aren’t I? I mean I know, he’s still me da, but I dunna ken how to get rid of him sometimes! Yennefer?” The Sorceress only looked at the Queen after she had made sure her message was not going to fall out in flight. Cerys was draped in her usual ensemble of red and blue, and fiery energy. She noticed the bird Yennefer was still holding on her arm, and a girlishly open smile lit the features of her scarred face which was becoming used to being stern and serious. 

“Ooh, he’s beautiful!” The Queen, known to her friends - although no longer referred to as such - as Sparrowhawk, had a love of all things wild and free and brave. “May I?” Yennefer smiled benevolently, allowing the younger woman to gently touch the bird with her ringed fingers. “Is this for Geralt?” she asked quietly, in a nearly apologetic tone. 

“Well, this is strictly speaking none of Your Majesty’s business, but yes,” the sorceress shot her a mildly disapproving glance, but allowed a hint of a smile to play on her lips. The Queen sighed and pursed her lips. 

“Ye miss him. I’m sorry. Why don’t ye go visit him for a while? Ye surely can be back fast enough through one of yer portals, and ...” Yennefer stopped her with her free hand.

“Cerys, I’ll stay here as long as you need me. We talked about this already. Unless anything changes,” she hesitated, “very seriously, I’ll finish everything we’ve started before I depart.” Cerys only nodded. She really was a good choice for a queen: Yennefer admired her confidence and bravery, albeit she often noted the same kind of infuriating stubbornness the girl shared with Ciri. 

“I’ll give you a moment then,” The red-haired woman nodded, and without waiting for the confirmation, turned on her heels and left. 

Yennefer watched the door shut dutifully behind her, then brought the kestrel up at her eye level and placed a gentle kiss to the bird’s soft brown head.

“Take care of him for me, will you?” and threw her hand in the air, releasing the kestrel, who made a single circle above her head, chanting, before heading straight east. To her Geralt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [WaywardLass](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardLass)
> 
> Happy birthday, Lass!

It was a nice spot - her favourite, in fact: a private, sheltered nook between the door and the stairs leading up. She had the table - large enough for six, and laden with an assortment of roast fish and vegetables, cheese and bread - all to herself. The owner of the fine establishment she was expecting was fashionably late, as was his habit. She spit a thin fish bone onto her plate - gracefully, she was sure; licked her greasy fingers - a little less so; and filled her glass from a fat-bellied demijohn. The wine was a bit sour and a bit sweet, but she would be unable to reliably judge its quality based on her experience: vodka had been her drinking companion more often than not. But today she fancied some. As she smacked her lips trying to decide if she liked the taste at all, she wondered if Geralt was drinking something better right now. He had to be - Toussaint was famous for its vineyards and their fine produce after all. 

She felt the muscles of her face relax at the thought of him, a smile tugging at her lips. She pushed an ashen strand of hair away from her eyes and all the way behind her ear, and smiled even broader - she had learnt to forget about her ugly scar, and stopped attempting to cover it with her hair at all times. 

“Cirilla!” The loud greeting was accompanied by a well-rehearsed gesture - upright posture, arms wide as if to embrace, a brilliant smile - which, although it reeked of theatrical grandeur, was heartfelt and sincere nonetheless. 

“Dandelion,” she laughed and stood up to claim the hug still proposed by his spread arms. 

“Good to see you! You’re looking well, wonderful in fact!” He looked her up and down, lingering on her face, and she believed him - it had indeed been a long time since she felt… what was it, relaxed? At ease? Not hunted? Not responsible for the whole world’s survival? Yes, all that. She gave the bard a mocking curtsy. 

“Apparently the life on the Path becomes me. And you’re not bad yourself.” Dandelion tried to sit across the table, but she pulled him down on the bench next to her. “We can speak more freely this way,” she winked at him, stabbed a roast potato and continued, unhindered by chewing. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she gestured around at the new - and whole - chairs, the small stage in the corner, and the overall more dignified colour palette of the decor. “The… whaddaya call them, accoutrements on the walls are especially nice,” she waved her knife around to include the entire space. 

“I know! That’s exactly what I said to Geralt! He helped me arrange all this, you know,” the troubadour reclined, casually swirling the wine in the glass he had already filled for himself, the precious stones on his ringed fingers shimmering in the light of multiple candles nestled on the many-armed candelabrum. “How is he? Have you heard from him?” 

“Yes, in fact I have. He’s well, busy with a big contract. Getting me a pretty pot from Toussaint.” Dandelion’s eyebrows raised so much Ciri had a feeling they might altogether disappear behind the rim of his inescapable purple feathered beret. 

“You do realise you shall have to tell me all about that in great detail, right?” he asked, tasting the wine, and then gulping half the contents before he put the glass down. 

“Do you have more of these mushrooms? I’ll tell you anything,” she grinned. 

***

“And how’s Priscilla?” Ciri asked, holding her head with her hand, her elbow shifting further and further away on the table. 

“Good, good,” Dandelion’s face changed somehow, his swagger turning to something… sweet? “She’s recovered. She sings again - not publicly, mind you, but she can. Even more beautifully than before, if you ask me.” 

“Aww, Dandelion’s in love!” she drawled tipsily. Despite her admittedly inebriated state, Ciri still had a sharp eye, and she could swear he actually blushed at her teasing. She sat straight, wriggled her way towards him along the bench and grabbed his puffy-sleeved arm. “I don’t mean to laugh. I’m very happy for you both.” She placed a loud smooch on his cheek to his visible pleasure. 

“And what about you? Found anyone?” Dandelion asked uncharacteristically tentatively. 

“Mhm, a few,” she winked over the rim of her glass: it was curious how something so much weaker than vodka managed to make one so drunk. 

“Oh! Well. You know what I mean though. Anyone special?” 

“Nope, haven’t been that lucky. Not yet anyway. But you know what? I am pretty happy,” she smiled broadly at him, “I think.”

“Good,” the bard said in a thick voice. He cleared his throat before continuing, “I shall call it “Happy on the Path”,” he proclaimed, looking dramatically at the ceiling. A voice behind them was a little husky, but coloured soft by the smile on the blond woman’s face as she appeared.

“I see I’m just in time - will you mind a duo?” she addressed Dandelion with a twinkle in her eyes, but proceeded without waiting for the answer he was not intent on giving - he was too busy looking at her, positively beaming. 

 

_“The path to happiness’s entwined with many other routes and tracks,_

_She’s walked so many - there and back - and yet the world is at her feet._

_She carries on, no fear, no doubt, just curious at whom she’ll meet,_

_Along that path which is delight, for girl with swords and hair like flax.”_

 

Priscilla recited as she descended the steps and rounded their table - her hand brushing gently on Dandelion’s shoulder. 

“Hi, Ciri.” The two young women embraced and kissed each other on the cheek. Priscilla looked truly well: she only still wore a scarf around her neck, hiding the scar which had nearly cost her her voice, and her life.

“Prissy, it is amazing how you can make this up just like that!” Ciri grinned at her in genuine awe.

“She really is incredibly talented, isn’t she?” Dandelion smiled radiantly, and Ciri only noticed pride and not a sign of professional competitiveness in his look. The moment was interrupted as one of the actresses approached the table with many apologies: she needed to discuss that night’s performance with Dandelion. 

“Ah, my dear ladies, the art calls for my presence, I’m afraid. I’ll have to leave you. But Ciri, you’re staying awhile, right? Shall I get the room ready for you?” He pointed a finger at her as if it were a weapon he would use had she dared to refuse.

“Sure, for a couple of nights,” she smiled gratefully. 

“Consider it settled. I’ll send you more wine. And those mushrooms,” he rolled his eyes at Ciri as she opened her mouth to say something, as if it was a despicably plebeian thing to enjoy one’s pickled mushrooms. “Would _you_ like anything, Prissy?” As the blond woman shook her head with a smile, he leaned in to kiss her, and Ciri turned away, for some strange reason now blushing herself.

The young women sat quietly at first, exchanging awkward smiles, until Priscilla looked down and gasped enthusiastically,

“I love your boots!” 

***

“I’d really love that… Maybe we will one day. Gotta find the right contract for two, you know,” the Witcheress sounded wistful, and she was. 

“Do you think you’ll go see him in Toussaint?” Priscilla wondered. 

“Don’t know,” Ciri shrugged. “Gotta be careful around there, there’s no knowing if Emhyr has spies there too. I’m not sure he was convinced by the stories of my demise.” She stared into the glass of wine, her gaze unfocused, her thoughts far away from the Chameleon. Priscilla watched her for some time, as if debating whether to ask a question or not. She took a tiny sip and put the glass down resolitely. 

“Emhyr? Not father?” Ciri stared at her, uncertain how she felt about the question, biting her lip.

“No,” she decided, “I never call _him_ that. That’s the name for an entirely different person,” she grinned, twisting her hair - the colour so like Geralt’s.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter became twice as long as I originally planned it to be, and all because I had to stuff all sorts of fluffy fluff into it, haha!
> 
> To all my fellow cat lovers - and Wolf lovers too, obviously. I hope you enjoy! I really enjoyed writing it. :))

He let Roach trot peacefully along the road sloping up to Corvo Bianco. Geralt guided his mare through the stone arches built at the entrance of the estate - his estate - barely holding the reins. Once they were through the last arch and in the courtyard, Geralt freed his feet from the stirrups and swung his right leg over Roach, dismounting in one swift move. He was going to leave his loyal mount tied loosely to a section of the nearby low wall, but the spot turned out to be occupied by the workers refurbishing the once additional wine cellar into a stable. Roach whinnied softly and tossed her head enthusiastically, as if well aware and quite pleased that the men were doing their work to make _her_ more comfortable. 

“Yeah, girl, you know it. Your new home’s gonna be ready soon enough.” He patted the horse’s neck and tried to lead her away behind the servant’s quarters, but she simply refused, neighing louder, shaking her head and stomping her hoof. Geralt crossed his arms right in front of Roach. “Oh all right then. You wanna stay here and watch and be a nuisance in everybody’s way?” The mare ignored his admonishing, walked a few steps towards the closed-up well and started munching nonchalantly on a patch of grass. “Hmm,” Geralt grumbled.

“I’ll keep an eye on her, Master Geralt,” one of his estate workers - damn it, he still had not learnt their names - pushed his straw hat up, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and cracked a good-natured smile. The Witcher could feel the slight scent of wine whiffing off the man, but instead of looking drunk, he seemed perfectly able to do his job. 

“Thank you,” he hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

“It’s Marco, Master Geralt,” the man lifted his hat, still smiling.

“Thank you, Marco,” the Witcher ( _and now a landed gentleman,_ he smirked) repeated, and a small smile caused by who knows what flickered across his scarred face as he headed up the hill where the main house stood. The smile was replaced by a scoff as he shook his head at another cat - a scrawny tabby this time - arching its back and hissing at the Witcher’s approach. It really was annoying with so many cats around. 

Geralt did not have any particular plan - it had been a tiring day chasing clues and trails, and he only wanted to rest, and eat, and be at home. Let that feeling sink in. On the way to his bedchamber, which was still shabby and incomplete, but now boasted a large comfortable bed, half way down the corridor he was intercepted by his majordomo. 

“Ah, welcome home, sir!” the bespectacled man greeted. He was wearing his ubiquitous ruff Geralt found quite ridiculous and over-the-top, himself refusing to don one even for the audience with the illustrious Duchess. But then again, the ruff in fact suited someone whose name was Barnabas-Basil. The frilly item of clothing, just as the fashion for complicated names, were part of Toussaint’s tradition. Although, come to think of it, some of Geralt’s friends’s real names were even more grand than those of the locals - take Dandelion, or Regis…

“Thanks, B.B.,” it had been a couple of days since Geralt had asked the majordomo if he minded being called that, and the man gracefully accepted his new moniker. Geralt appreciated being freed from the ordeal of articulating all of the syllables of the man’s name every time he wanted to ask him a question. 

“Would you be staying for dinner? As you can see, the works are in progress everywhere on the estate at the moment, but I can call off the workers from the master bedroom right away. 

“Oh,” Geralt halted, thinking. “No need. Let them do their job. I’ll eat and rest outside. The weather’s good enough.” He unbuckled his double-sword harness and placed it on one of the cabinets. “What are they doing there exactly? Will I be able to sleep there tonight?”

“Of course, sir. Just some replastering, the painting of the walls is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. You should not be bothered by any unwelcome smells tonight.”

“Wow. So the renovations really are in full swing. Impressive job, B.B.” Barnabas-Basil nodded, cracking only a hint of a respectful but visibly pleased smile.

“Do you have a moment to take a look at some things which have already undergone the treatment?”

“Uh, yeah, guess so.” 

“Please, follow me, sir.” 

The men strode outside, down the main path, and left across the wooden bridge - which already was less rickety than the first time Geralt had walked on it - over the stream. Barnabas-Basil wanted to show him the garden. It was yet far from what it had once been and would become again, but it was already cleaned up: there were no more weeds, only straight lines of freshly sown herb seeds. Geralt had told his majordomo he wanted the garden restored because it would save him lots of time harvesting herbs for his potions and elixirs. In truth, there was the other reason too: he thought Yennefer would enjoy it, especially the part which was enclosed by not so much walls but multiple arches, the one where the previous mistress of the house used to grow the most delicate flowers. The thought of Yennefer as the mistress of his - their - home caused something to pinch at his heart. It was beautiful even now - with only wild roses crawling up the not-exactly walls. It smelt sweet there. He froze at the sudden thought.

“Barnabas-Basil,” he surprised himself by using the majordomo’s full name, “do you think we could plant a couple of lilac trees here?”

“Right here? Hmm, we could, if you insist, although I fear the scents would be too interfering.” Geralt’s face sunk, but the other man looked like he was still calculating, taking all the options into account. “Besides, lilacs prefer rocky hills, where they can develop to their full magnificence...” Geralt sighed. It was a shame - he had thought it such a brilliant idea for a surprise for Yen - but how the hell did this man know so much about everything? He sure had to introduce him to Regis. Just to have the opportunity to be present at the after-a-couple-of-drinks kind of conversation between those two. 

“Never mind,” the Witcher shook his head.

“...like in your olive grove...”

“What?” Geralt paused as B.B. was rubbing his forehead. “What about the olive grove?” 

“Well, it is of course the perfect spot for lilacs, of which the ones already growing there are ample proof. Those are the shrub variety though, shorter than trees, but known specifically for their rich flowering and sce…”

“You mean we already have some?” The majordomo made a sound which must have been the love child of a chuckle, a scoff, and a groan. 

“You do, sir,” he confirmed politely, clearing his throat. 

“Thank you, B.B. That’s great news,” Geralt grinned at him, apparently unexpectedly, as the other man looked nearly startled for a second, before returning a smile with a nod of his head.

“I’m happy to hear that. Would you like me to show you where the lilacs are?”

“Hmm, no, thanks. I’ll take a walk there on my own. Might actually grab something from the kitchen and eat there while the sun’s still out.”

“I shall send one of the boys with the food packed for you immediately,” Barnabas-Basil did not even wait for a response, and, with another nod, retired back towards the house.

Geralt walked to the opposite side of the estate, nodding and raising his arm in greeting to the many people at work in nearly every corner of it. When he reached the grove though, it was empty. It was not the time to harvest olives yet, and apparently nothing much needed to be done there at the moment, or had already been done, and he was glad for the privacy. 

He walked through the short, squat trees making up a regular pattern, their grey-green leaves turning in the breeze, looking almost like silver. He spotted what he was looking for from far off and wondered how he had not noticed the shrubs wrapped in purple foam before. They made for a stark contrast with the surrounding olives, and as he approached, the scent hit him straight in the heart, bypassing the nose altogether. It was what home smelt like for him. That, and the extra tartness of gooseberry. He would have to ask Basnabas-Basil about that, too, he chuckled. 

Geralt had only settled at the base of an older olive tree with a twisted trunk, when he noticed a boy approaching, most likely carrying his dinner. During the first days Geralt had been surprised to see kids on his estate, but he quickly realised that of course, they travelled wherever their parents found work, and he supported families staying all together. Although it was Anarietta who had gracefully provided the wages for all the servants of the estate from the Duchy’s treasury, Geralt had decided he would pitch in by doing some renovations on their houses too, making their life more comfortable. 

The Witcher watched the boy lazily, turning an overly hard and small olive between his fingers. He bit into it out of curiosity rather than hunger, and had to spit the contents of his mouth the same instant: the bitterness could rival the Enhanced Thunderbolt’s repulsive taste. He cursed his Witcher’s sensitivity for allowing him to “indulge” in the taste even more. He could very well use something more palatable now, but the boy seemed to get stuck on his way. Geralt sat up straining his neck to see what he was doing, but could only make out the boy crouching by a tree, taking something out of his pocket and putting it there, accompanied by some hand gestures the purpose of which Geralt was unable to guess behind the patch of tall grass.

Luckily, it did not take long for the boy to get back up on his feet, dust himself off, and run towards Geralt with a large-ish box in his hands.

“Master Witcher!” he greeted excitedly and attempted a polite half-bow-half-nod the adults had apparently tried to teach him, “here’s your dinner.” He set the box between them on the ground, and, with a serious face full of concentration, started pointing a questionably clean finger at different parcels. “There’s rosted chicken,” a poke into the largest package, “and some rosted veggit… turnips and carrots,” he gave up on the word but did not become discouraged, “bread”, he thought for a moment and stabbed one of the two remaining packages with a finger. “Yes, these ones are some pears, and this one is a plum pie.” He beamed, happy with the success of his mission. 

“Thank you,” Geralt paused, wrecking his brain - he was sure he actually knew the name of this boy, but he got interrupted before he could remember it himself. 

“I’m Vedran!”

“Thank you, Vedran,” Geralt chuckled, unwrapping the chicken. He broke off the leg of the half-bird, sank his teeth into it and nodded at the rest, “Wanna bite?” The boy shook his head so quickly Geralt wondered if his head had started spinning.

“I just ate a while back. “‘Sides, I got some pie from the kitchen, too,” he grinned, showing a couple of missing teeth, and pulled a piece of the plum pie from his pants pocket - the dust, various bits and pieces that lived in boys’ pockets, and the dark-purple filling had got thoroughly mixed up. Geralt groaned.  
“Please, take some of mine,” he offered, but the kid shook his head again, and chewed happily on his slice. Geralt grimaced before taking another bite of the chicken and tearing a chunk of bread to go with it. “Wait, were you feeding someone there by the tree?” The boy nodded just as enthusiastically as he shook his head. 

“There’s a cat, she’s to have little ‘uns.”

“And she likes plum pie?”

“Not very much,” the boy’s face scrunched up in slight disappointment. “I gotta go, Master Witcher. My da said he has some work for me.”

“Sure.” He saw the boy take a look at where the cat had been, but the expectant feline had apparently moved elsewhere. 

Geralt tore a piece of chicken breast and set in aside. He took a deep breath, then a good look around, and engaged his Witcher senses. He could feel the heat source of a small furry body just two trees away. He looked about again, and, seeing no one in his close proximity, started crawling in the cat’s direction on all fours, the meat in his hand. He froze when the animal was just behind the tree, lying in the grass, breathing fast, not because it was uneasy, but because it was pregnant. That, however, meant that the feline was even more alert than usual. She jumped up and started backing away, hissing and arching her back at the Witcher at the same time.

“Oh, come on! I just wanna give you some food! Here. I’ll even move away,” he grumbled. He placed the chicken meat on the ground and crawled back some. The cat deliberated. Geralt made another crawling step back. The mouser that finally appeared had ginger fur, a rounded belly, and green eyes which immediately squinted right at Geralt’s. A guttural noise came from the cat without it really opening its mouth. Geralt sighed, and slowly spread one arm in front of him. Taking a quick look around and making sure there was no one else nearby, he shaped his fingers into the Sign of Axii. It worked. The cat’s head moved a little, as if trying to shake something off its ears, but the next moment the smell of food reached its nostrils, and right now it was stronger and felt more important than that of the Witcher. Geralt inched closer but let her have her fill without disturbing. 

When she was done, the feline sat on the same spot and started cleaning her paws. The Witcher moved closer. Feeling like an idiot, he took a brief glance around yet again, and cast another Axii. This time, the cat did not show any hostility when he approached. In fact, she sniffed at his hand still smelling of chicken, bumping her wet nose into his palm and giving it a lick with her rough tongue. He sat cross-legged, and gently scooped her up. The animal did not protest, instead she settled on his legs quite comfortably, and continued grooming her bright-orange fur. He gingerly drew his hand over her head, and smoothed the fur all along her back. She stopped licking her chest for a moment, wet fur assuming a funny stretched-out shape, but as soon as she felt Geralt’s fingers scratching carefully behind her ears, she relaxed, stretching her paws. 

“See? You don’t really have to hate me. I mean it’s not my fault they made my eyes look like yours and gave me some magic to use, and let me see like you and move like you but didn’t actually make me into a cat. I know, it’s confusing as shit.” He kept petting this warm ball of an animal, threading his fingers through the impossibly soft fur. 

Less than a minute later, the purring was interrupted by a twitch of the cat’s ears, and the Witcher knew it had been good while it lasted. He put the cat down on the ground and retired back under the tree where the remains of his dinner still waited. Just in time before the hissing resumed. 

_I wonder if Yen knows anything more about “the cats and the Witchers” predicament_ , he wondered, sucking the filling from the plum pie before taking a less dangerous bite out of it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we finally are! With " _Yours Truly_ " completed, we're revisiting our heroes right after the events described in the letters. 
> 
> Please note that this chapter is the reason why I had to switch this fic's rating to Explicit. I hope you enjoy Geralt and Yennefer's reunion. :)

It was a groan that woke him. After an admittedly perfunctory inspection, Geralt concluded he had just woken up himself - and had good reason for groaning, too. He sat up in bed, both surprised and annoyed that he had in fact undressed before going to sleep, and reached for a pair of worn leather trousers slung near-carefully over the back of a nearby chair. 

He groaned again: his bladder’s call for attention was even more insistent now that he was bending at the waist. He cursed. How long had he been sleeping? Pulling his trousers and boots on in this state was no mean feat, so he did not bother to wear anything else, making a beeline for the door. 

Geralt hated chamber pots. Barnabas-Basil had put them up in both refurbished bedchambers of the main house of course, but Geralt kept them pristinely unused. There was something disturbing to him about answering his calls of nature in the same room where he slept. Besides, he did prefer the nature. Right now the Witcher intended to slip out of the house and head for the thick patch of trees on the hillock behind it, which basically separated the estate from the forest. But just as he slunk through the corridor, his eye caught a small tray sitting on a shelf between his weapon display cases, ceremoniously holding a letter. 

Even a quick side glance was enough to send a jolt through Geralt’s body, faintly hastening his heartbeat. It was from Yen. _So soon_ , he thought, undecided between feeling alarmed and delighted. Waving off any further deliberations, he snatched the letter, tucked it into his pocket, and hurried outside to deal with more pressing - literally - and immediate concerns.

The relief washed over him in a slow wave as he stood between the trees, legs wide apart. The piss seemed to take minutes - and he might have even closed his eyes in a moment of bliss there. When done, he took his time cracking his neck to both sides and stretching his slightly stiff from obviously long sleep body. Geralt felt a smile spread across his face as he patted his pocket and felt the gentle rustle of parchment in it. He considered for a moment: now that his bladder was finally empty, he became acutely aware of his stomach being even more so, but he wanted to read Yen’s missive in peace and as soon as possible too. Aiming for a compromise, he decided to sneak into the pantry and steal some hard cheese and apples and whatnot from himself - hoping Marlene would be in the kitchen, leaving him undisturbed. 

His plan was smoothly executed, but for an angry hiss from one of the numerous estate cats - this one was black as night with bright yellow eyes so like Geralt’s own - whose mice hunt the Witcher unwittingly interrupted. 

“Sorry, little fella,” Geralt mumbled, retreating with his hands full - he grabbed the single cold bottle of ale from the table to wash down the food. He would have gone to the cellar to pick up some wine, but he judged it was better to be grateful for what was at hand in this instance. 

Despite it being the beginning of Velen, Toussaint still boasted perfectly warm weather - even more pleasant now in fact that it was not scorchingly hot or stuffy to wear armour all day any longer, so the lack of a shirt did not bother the Witcher. He enjoyed the soft caress of the sun as he exposed his many scars to it, sitting cross-legged on the side of the hillock overlooking the forest.

Geralt dug his teeth into the hard sausage after fruitlessly checking his boots for a knife. Apparently, he had been thorough in removing not only his clothes but all his gear before he had gone to sleep. The cold ale felt refreshing, and Geralt wondered with a tinge of guilt if Marlene had brought it out from the cellar for herself. After a few bites and swigs he finally opened the letter - slowly, taking a long sniff at it first. The lilac and gooseberry scent seemed incredibly fresh this time, as if applied only recently. Geralt sighed wistfully at an image of Yennefer dabbing a drop of perfume to her wrists, both sides of her neck, between her breasts… He smiled at the envelope encouragingly. 

“Come on, give me some good news.”

At first glance it did not look good - the message was way too short, only a couple of sentences. But then he actually read it. And read it again. Then tracked back to the date and place at the top of the page. 

“Corvo Bianco,” he mumbled, half-confused, half-hopeful. “She's here.” His lips stretched into a rare big smile as his heart - for a change recently - filled with warmth. He made quick work of the remaining provisions, but despite his wish - which had become a need really - to see Yennefer as soon as he possibly could, he knew he was not going to follow her suggestion and ask their pet kestrel for help. However much he dreaded work and dreamed of retirement right now, he was always going to remain a hunter. The hunt was simply in his blood. And Yennefer was the sweetest, most elusive and thus most rewarding prey a hunter could wish for. 

He stopped by the stream to give his face and upper body a cursory wash, and shook his head to let droplets of cool water fly off his hair in all directions. He grinned wolfishly: he was fully awake now, and utterly ready. 

It was her scent which led him to her - not only the powdery perfume, but _her_ , her skin, her breath, her hair - everything combined gave off that particular bouquet he had always found so irresistible. She was sitting on a fallen log in a sunlit clearing not far into the forest, from the back appearing to read something. She was wearing her usual combination of black and white it seemed, but even not yet fully revealed, her clothes looked lighter than what she typically wore, more… airy, and… just less. Geralt felt a groan constrict his throat. Nothing was stronger now than the need to touch her. 

He did not trust his voice, so he chose to make a deliberate sound stepping on a twig which snapped obligingly, informing her of his presence. She turned. A book slipped from her hand to the ground with a soft thump. Her tumbling black locks briefly concealed the luminosity of her eyes, the curve of her parted lips - and then she smiled, and got to her feet, and her arms were wrapped around his neck before he remembered to make a few steps forward. She stood on tiptoe and simultaneously tugged him down for a kiss, which was a pressure of lips, and bodies, and - if Geralt was forced to admit it - as if their whole beings. 

“Geralt,” she breathed out slowly, eyes heavy-lidded and half-shut, a perfect blush creeping over her high cheekbones. “Hello, my Witcher,” she smiled, finally meeting his gaze, before she pulled him in even closer until they brushed their foreheads together. 

“Hi, Yen,” he croaked in response, and dipped down for another kiss. The fullness of her lips, their readiness and pliancy felt intoxicating - and yet more refreshing than a crystal clear mountain spring. She clung to him, supple, graceful, impossible - and his. “I missed you,” he said when they came up for air. “Welcome home,” he grinned. Her face lit up with a brilliant smile of her own. 

“I see you have received my letter. And come to claim the promised.” There was a twinkle in her violet eyes which looked very promising to Geralt, but it soon hid behind something else - something more profound. She slid her hands down from his neck to his bare chest, long fingers caressing old scars as if strumming a lute. Her gaze rested on them for a fraction of a moment before she looked up at him again. “I missed you too, my love. And I’m not going anywhere anymore.” She kissed a new scar of his - a yet freshly pink crescent across his collarbone left by one of Dettlaff’s claws, then pressed her cheek to his chest, her whole body shuddering before wrapping around him quietly. 

“Yen,” he whispered, as both an introduction and a final chapter, one hand roaming her back, the other tangling in her locks, his chin coming to rest comfortably on the top of her head. “I’m fine. I’m fine now.” Her eyes were shiny when she looked up, he could not say if with tears, but it was of no importance. He held her chin up with a thumb and forefinger and started peppering quick light kisses all over her eyes, not giving her a chance to open them, finally making laughter spill uncontrollably from her lips. 

“I love you, Witcher,” she said through it just as Geralt tasted a bit of salt on his lips. Their eyes met.

“I love you too, Yen.” Without warning, he spun her around, stealing her surprised gasp, marvelling at it, and tucked her back to him: her back pressed tightly against his chest, his arms around her, his mouth between her neck and shoulder. Geralt ghosted a breath over a patch of her uncovered skin, and her shiver sent a jolt of desire down his spine. He kissed the right side of her neck slowly and deliberately, licking a thin trail up to her ear with the tip of his tongue, catching the adorned earlobe between his teeth, letting her earring slip out and fall into the grass - unnoticed and uncared for. 

Yennefer gasped again as his hands closed around her slim waist, and started making their slow way up to her breasts concealed only by a gauzy blouse and a soft piece of underwear - thank all gods she did not much enjoy wearing corsets. She needed none. Geralt groaned with pleasure at the sweetest whimper she let out as his hand cupped her breast, captured a pert nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She writhed, her ass pressing and rubbing against his groin, her hand sliding down his thigh, hardening him in an instant. It took a witcher's self-control not to bend her down the same moment and thrust his straining length into her, but he had not felt her for months. He wanted to take pleasure in everything that was her. He wanted to see if she was wet, he wanted to make her cry out even before he entered her. 

“Oh, Yen,” he rasped as he dipped a hand under her skirt and between her legs, rubbing gently over her underwear, feeling his fingers soak up, “will you tell me what you want me to do?” She moaned loudly in response. 

“Yes. Yes, Geralt. Keep doing that. I want your fingers drawing circles right there, I want you to feel my lower lips get swollen with desire. I want…” A gasp. Unbidden, he pulled the thin fabric away and slipped a finger into the heat of her core. It was a marvellous game in which he made the rules up on the go. And he could see Yennefer was enjoying it just as much as he did. 

“Do you want me to keep doing _this_?” he asked, curling his finger inside her. 

“Yes,” she trembled, and spread her legs a little wider, leaning on him for more support - and a better angle. “In fact, I want you to add another finger. Slowly.” He did as he was told, then started sliding them in and out unprompted. “Yes, I want you to fuck me with your fingers,” she breathed heavily, “I did it myself as you told me to, bit it just didn't feel the same. I like your roughness. It’s so tender. I wa...” She gasped, leaving her next wish unvoiced, as Geralt pumped his fingers into her in a merciless rhythm. 

The position was hardly comfortable for him, but the feeling of her - so small in his arms, so open to anything he did to her, so aroused and so trusting - was near enough to undo him. She came first though. He rubbed his bulge against her perfectly round bottom as he angled his hand so that every time his fingers slipped inside, the palm of his hand pressed against her clit. The sounds his ministrations were producing were the sweetest music to his ears - the obscene wetness of flesh meeting flesh, and his lover’s low, drawn-out moans interspersed by choked gasps. He sensed her climax through the squeeze of her inner muscles on his fingers - which he had no intention of releasing yet. Instead, he pinched her nipple with the other hand, and sunk his teeth into her neck again, and groaned as she writhed and twisted riding out her waves of pleasure. 

She went limp in his arms for a moment, then turned her head to the side slowly to catch a glimpse of his face behind her and reach for a kiss. 

“Are you ready for further instructions?” she asked in a voice which was a magical combination of lazy and satisfied, yet imperious and ravenous. He would do whatever she told him. He showed his teeth in an equally hungry grin. 

“Always.” 

“Take those fingers out,” she said fixing him with a dark violet stare - there was a sparkle of lightning behind the velvet of the night sky in her eyes. “And put them in my mouth.” As he did her bidding, his knees almost buckled at the sight and feel of her lips closing around his fingers, sucking, gathering her own wetness - staring at him the whole time. “I want to taste _you_ now.” Although the semantics of the sentence said it was merely a wish expressed, Geralt knew it for the command it was. He let her go, lifting his arms and locking his hands behind his head - leaving her in charge of his pleasure. She gifted him with a most perfect dirty smile and a purr as she unlaced his trousers, freed his erection and took him into her mouth maddeningly slowly. He wanted to buck into her, to bury himself to the hilt in her sweet hot mouth, and - he did. He froze there, meeting no resistance from Yen, allowing her for a moment to adjust. She held him tightly in her mouth, then let his cock slide out slowly, keeping the pressure with her rounded lips, her hands roaming to press at his abdomen, squeeze his balls, scratch his buttocks. Then she picked up the pace. 

When he opened his eyes to look down, the sight of her head bobbing over his sleek shaft rhythmically disappearing into her mouth sent him into a frenzy. He growled, and gathered a fistful of her hair, forcing her to stop with a gentle pull. Her eyes were laughing, and naughty, and hungry when she met his gaze. 

“I need to be in you,” he stated a simple claim which bore no further discussion. She grinned. “I hope you brought lots of clothes - not much of them will survive,” he added, stepping on his own pulled down trousers to be rid of them altogether. 

“Worry not, my Wolf. I shall be happy to be quite bare when I'm with you,” she purred in both a reassurance and a challenge, nipping at his shoulder as he picked her up and carried her to a thicker patch of grass. Sprawled there, her skirt bunched up, she was a beautiful sight. But Geralt was about it to make even more beautiful. He lowered himself to kiss her ardently on the mouth, and while their tongues played the game of power and sweetness, he leaned on the ground with one hand and with the other ripped her blouse and her underthings cleanly in half, letting her breasts spill out, teasing him with the pale nipples. He went for them greedily, licking, sucking and pinching her pebbled flesh. 

Her skirt survived. Geralt found the sight of it bunched around her waist and hips strangely tantalising and more arousing even than seeing her completely naked. Her underwear was a thing of the past though. He flung the torn remains of fragile fabric aside, and leaned in to place a teasing kiss between her legs. He wanted to devour her, he truly did - but he could not. The scent of her both satisfaction and desire which hit his nostrils was overpowering. He got to his knees, nudged her slender leg aside, and angled the wet head of his cock at her entrance. And pushed. 

Geralt closed his eyes - but he could still see her: the violets and blacks and whites were dancing behind his eyelids, the fragrant lilac and gooseberry ghosted over him, wrapping his whole self into her. He thrust - once, twice…

“Harder, Witcher,” she pleaded and demanded - and he obliged. He pumped into her relentlessly, savouring the sloppy smacking sounds their bodies made each time they met, the bounce of her breasts, the disarray of her raven-black hair, the torn blades of grass on her thigh, the grimace of bliss on her face, the tension in his every muscle - in the very atoms of his body - as he groaned through his release. 

Yennefer grasped his buttocks to keep him in her, to have him even closer for yet another moment, her inner muscles squeezing him dry. He slumped over her, perfectly aware that he was too heavy. Instead of protesting, she moaned, and gave a joyful laugh, and bit his ear. 

“Ow,” he said matter-of-factly and quite happily, and rolled off her, his bare back meeting the dewy grass. Yennefer sidled up to him, taking a position she was made for - lying on his shoulder, her petite body pressed comfortably to his, their grooves and bumps finding each other as pieces of a single puzzle. 

“I’m happy you're finally here, Yen,” he said playing with her hair, and pressed an uncharacteristically chaste kiss to her temple. 

“So am I, Geralt,” she sighed happily. “Also, I’m hungry.” He laughed. 

“I wouldn't mind a proper breakfast myself now. Guess it's time you met B.B. and Marlene. After we get you covered up a bit,” he wiggled his eyebrows at her destroyed blouse and dragged a knuckle over her breasts. 

“Barnabas-Basil and I have already made our introductions, and Marlene has promised me an Aedirn-style vegetable stew for lunch.” Yen’s mockingly arched eyebrow betrayed how happy she was to surprise him. 

“Wow, I’m impressed. They normally are quite… suspicious of strangers and quite… well, protective of me - believe it or not.”

“Oh I do believe it,” she laughed. “I’m sure our initial hostilities were in fact the solid base for a future deep relationship filled with trust and maybe even devotion.” Geralt cracked an amused smile. 

“I don't doubt that.” As they stood up, and Yen straightened her skirt while the useless flaps of her blouse fluttered over her pale breasts, Geralt hummed with appreciation. “See, I’d offer you my shirt - but…” he grinned, pulling up his trousers. She squinted her eyes at him. 

“I admit I'm tempted to go as is.”

“Oh why don't you?” he challenged, amusement spilling out through his voice. 

“Oh you will so one day get what you're asking for,” she hissed without any malice, and waved her hands in front of her chest in a series of patterns. She now appeared to be wearing a perfectly whole version of the same blouse. But Geralt knew an illusion spell when he saw one. He could not dispel it, but as they made their slow way towards the house, his hand around her waist, he reached a bit upper and brushed her naked breast with his fingers. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Yennefer wondered without sparing him a glance, strained laughter bubbling in her voice. 

“Just marvelling at how profoundly expert your illusions are. Look, this imaginary blouse even shows your hardened nipples if I do _this_.” He gave her peaked breast a pinch and a gentle twist. Yennefer swallowed a moan. 

“I _am_ happy to see you, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please mind that there's one more chapter coming in this fic - the one which will complete this story and pave the way for the beginning of the next one. More reunions incoming! (All chaste thought. ;) )


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